so
you wake up on the dead side of the moon
and
you recognise it
because you been there before
and
you puke warm bile
every morning at 3 AM
and
your eyes are empty and cold as ice cream scoops
and
youre rammed in your own sweating stink crack
where
theres
no
time
or
light
till something clicks or cracks forever
inside your deepest guts
and
you go on a go-slow
and
never speed up again ever
and
numbers look like egyptian writing
all wolf heads and square cats
and
they
call it ME or they call it CFS or they call it suck-it-looser
when
you
feel like one of those dog turds
thats got rubber bands hanging from it
linking
up
shit
clumps
in a horrible convoy
and
you end up at 6.45 AM queueing for more blood tests
with
the
ordinary ogres
wishing
they
find
you
a
cooler
disease
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